Saturday, December 9, 2017

We slow down as our footsteps take us into the woods and up
the valley where the stream gets smaller and more intimate. Stepping quietly, our
senses detect the little music; tinkles of bells, murmurs of woodwinds, swirls
of flutes, brush strokes both bold and exact.

It focuses the eyes and concentrates the senses. We are one
in harmony with the stream. We are part of it. We stepped into its realm one
foot in the element of water, one foot on earth, our minds in the air above and
eyes in wonder, searching… heightened senses… spot a wild orchid, a water
spider, watch a tiny brook trout explore a riffle in circles unaware you are
now a part of its world. We feel welcome, not an intruder. The gallery opens
for us…

They are intimate because we enter the portrait. We are part
of it for a fleeting moment…

The streams are introspective. Dancing lights of water
sparkle like little flashing mirrors and highlights provide the lighting to
make the portrait glow. We are reflective now among the tunnels of valleys
hidden among hills. We pause to strive to understand… to interpret.

We even seem to breath in miniature in order not to disturb
this quiet song.

This art exhibit was not promoted, and the portraits so
hidden that the show does not begin until we stop to smell a flower, or turn
the artwork on its side to reveal its colors: Brown trout… toasted Amish bread
with honey and raspberries with halos of ripe blueberries. Brook trout so
colored that they seem out of proportion to size. How can such a bright canvas
be hidden here? They are tubes of paint rolling along the cobble-palette at the
bottom to be uncovered for a mere moment in time, splashed across our memory in
bright strokes like a Van Gogh.

Is it a portrait or a landscape? Only the artist knows, and
we may think we know his or her intentions, only to be confronted around the
next bend, as the gallery changes anew.

The streams are awash with color and shadow, their features
thrusting forth proudly in personalities captured in a mere sitting. A moment
in time ageless now as they move from birth to death, from spring to
confluence, only to sit again for a new portrait the next time we step into
their studio and smell the colors of the foliage and water on the artist’s
brushes sweeping gently like trees across the canvas of nature.

They will be there next time we visit, differently intimate
and small, but with such art to kiss the senses each moment, around
every curve, every cheek, lip, and riffle.

The Classical Angler

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Intermediate Wraps:

"If angling is the contemplative sport, as Mr. Walton would have us understand, that contemplation should not be on the final destination, but upon the path that led us there. Let that path not be the easy one nor the commonplace, but one of inner discovery and learning, for that much the better when the fish is finally brought to hand." Erik Helm

"“If the world were clear, art would not exist.” Albert Camus

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A quiet rest stop for we anglers who enjoy tradition and literary effort, and a site that intends to inspire, question, and spur thinking.

There is power in words, and art in the angling which we need to appreciate. as we journey through the riffles of life, never forget the art and the approach are as important as the fish brought to hand.If you like this blog, please tell others about it and link to it.

Comment from the archives: This is the greatest writing on fly-fishing I have ever read since the stories of Traver and MacQuarrie. Your use of analogies and the romance and reference to art are one of a kind. Keep writing and keep this art alive please!